


Self Mutilator/Holic

by Manya_Kami



Category: Fruits Basket, Fruits Basket (Anime 2019), Fruits Basket - Takaya Natsuki (Manga)
Genre: Body Horror, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fruits basket spoilers, Mental Instability, Metaphors, Not everything is what it seems don’t take this at face value kids, Selfcest, Surrealism, This looks like crack but it’s actually a, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, unhealthy thought processes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 10:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20080882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manya_Kami/pseuds/Manya_Kami
Summary: Roses are red,violets are blue,「I am Akito,and you are, too。」





	Self Mutilator/Holic

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, Akito, my number one; my best girl, actually, if you’d believe it. 
> 
> I’ve wanted to write a little somethin for her ever since the remake started up... but this wasn’t particularly what I had in mind. 
> 
> Nonetheless, I had a blast writing it. 
> 
> I’m gonna warn you folks, this one’s weird. I wanted a dark, surreal feel for it... tonally, I was aiming for something in between Ramsey’s ‘Love Surrounds You’ and Glass Animals’ ‘Exxus.’ I wonder if I achieved that...
> 
> But, I’m getting ahead of myself. 
> 
> Spoilers ahead, but I’ll bet you already figured that much.

There is another her. 

It feels a bit crazy, to make a statement like that, perhaps. A bit nutty, a bit out of her zone. Like if she so much as breathes a word of this realization to anyone they’ll lock her up and away on account of her going completely bananas. 

But she _knows_.

She’s seen the other Akito in the ghosts of whispers within the inner house, seen the other Akito in the tearful eyes of her Juunishi when they tremble before her. She’s seen the other Akito that lingers and languishes on the cusp of her shadow, seen the other Akito that quivers and quakes in the vague uncertainty of her reflection. 

She’s seen it, and the other Akito haunts her. 

It watches her, it’s seen her every move, every step she takes. She can feel it, like the breath of a lie hanging over her shoulder. It’s always there, always just a step out of her reach. 

She hates the feeling utterly. Being watched, being observed. Trapped within her own self. Like she’s a butterfly pinned to a table, wings pierced through and rendered completely immobile. Even if she struggles, she’ll never be able to move. 

She really does sound crazy, doesn’t she?

But then, she thinks that maybe, just, if she could reach out and touch it—the other her, that is—then she might—

(her hands grasping, clawing at the edges of a mirror, she’s frantic and manic in her movements, but maybe if she’s fast enough if she can just—)

but it scuttles out of reach, and the only thing left in the wake of it is her own miserable reflection. She’s glaring at herself from the other side of a looking glass, scowling at the grotesque and disgusting way her body warps, at the sick sacks of fat that hang uselessly from her chest and the unnatural curve of her waist before jutting out into the harsh, sharp edge of her hip. She shivers just once, and tastes the bitter seed of hatred at it all. 

Somewhere, another Akito is laughing. 

* * *

“Akito-sama,” Yuki says to her one day, timid and unsure. Frightened. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Is… Is something wrong?”

They’re both seated on the tatami mats in Yuki’s room. It’s black as pitch and the air is suppressive, thick and heady. Akito’s curled in on herself, her fingers are shaking, she’s clutching onto her own anger. She doesn’t even know why she’s so angry. Maybe Yuki brings out the worst in her.

“Akito-sama?” Yuki repeats, sounding almost concerned. It’s laughable; the way he uncurls from his own huddled-up sitting position, the way he tepidly reaches out into the vacant darkness. Like he wants to touch her, like _he_ has any real power here, let alone the power to fix whatever her deal is. 

Whatever. 

Akito slowly stands up, stumbles a bit, searches the darkness for Yuki’s silhouette. She’s not that naive. She can feel an unhappiness welling up in her, about to boil up and over. It’s enough that she could kill him, right here, right now, she thinks crazily. 

“A-Akito-sama?” 

She’d thought, initially, that letting Yuki drown in the silence and the darkness might be the most fitting punishment (not that he’s even done anything to deserve it lately, but then—who the fuck cares about that). Just let him wallow in his own thoughts and insecurities.

But that plan has backfired, because during that time she too, has been wallowing. 

Her mood is pulled taught, like a trigger. 

She creeps up to Yuki’s slight form like a prowler, rests her slim hands atop the crown of his head. Runs her fingers through his silky silvery locks. He flinches, then shudders under her touch as she maps out his face in the darkness, drags her fingers across his round, smooth cheeks and over his small nose. Traces a single hand beneath his chin and cocks his head upwards so she can really look at him. 

What little light does stream into the room hits his face at a perfect angle. He shines like the moon with the way glimmers against his pale, flawless skin. Shaking like a leaf, he looks vulnerable and scared. He’s so perfect like this. Her perfect, beautiful Yuki. 

But, then, she—

He looks at her, and then she sees the other Akito in his eyes. Sees it in the way Yuki’s mouth trembles and the way thin tears trickle down his alabaster cheeks. She sees it, the other her, and the way it’s glaring at her from the other side, makes her feel—

She digs the heel of her hands into Yuki’s eyes. 

“Akito-sama—I—!” He shrieks, because she presses _hard_ and angry. She hates Yuki. She detests him. 

(no, she loves him—)

She raises her voice, feels fury overtake her. “_‘Is something wrong?’_ What do _you_ think?!” She howls at him. “It makes me sick, how pathetic you are, that you think that you could actually _do _something? That’s laughable!”

She cackles like a villain, or perhaps a psychopath, because she presses with dangerous and deadly precision before the thought dawns on her again that she might just kill him, but then—

She sees a dash of movement, watches the shadows bend a little strangely. Like something’s lurking there, a thing less than human that lives in the darkness. Akito raises her gaze to just behind Yuki, and then she sees again—

(yuki is crying, reaching up to grasp at her hands to try to pry them off his face, clawing at her in desperation and it stings, she’s bleeding but she doesn’t notice, not right now, because she’s—)

The other Akito is standing there, and it laughs at her. Dark and low, a throaty laugh like an adult (or a—) that rings hollowly throughout the room. She hears it even over Yuki’s wails, sees the way its mouth contorts into a smile, and she feels penetrated, humiliated, and ashamed. 

She lets go of Yuki. 

Reaches out, grasps into the darkness—

but it’s gone, dissipated like a dream. Now it’s just her, and this crying and screaming obnoxious boy. His noise will make her nauseous, will give her migraines if she stays here any longer, so she stomps towards the door and shouts petulantly, 

“I don’t care about you anymore!” 

and leaves. 

Somewhere, another Akito slithers in the shadows. 

* * *

Even alone in her own room, she feels it. 

Maybe she’s crazy. Maybe she really has gone bananas. Maybe nothing really matters anymore. 

She watches the shadows wriggle about the room as they simmer beneath the glittering moonlight, and she thinks of Yuki. Thinks of Shigure, thinks of Kureno. She thinks of her Juunishi, and of the other her. 

Akito’s kimono slips off of her thin shoulders, and the cold night air seems to cut through her. She really feels insane, feels vulnerable and unaware of her surroundings. 

She’s drifting maybe, floating like a flotsam into the realm of madness. Like somehow her soul has disjointed from her body; like the God spirit has given her breath in a new life. 

(what a terribly romantic way to describe insanity, she’s crazy, she’s out of her mind, she’s seeing double these days— )

If she were to look out the window, she wonders what she’d see. Herself, perhaps, staring back at her through the looking glass. Or maybe the other her, who is undeniably herself, yet not. 

She takes one step towards it, another, creeping slowly as though she may startle it—whatever _it _is she’s expecting to see—and makes her way over until—

She hears the maids suddenly, bustling about in the hall on the other side of the wall. She looks to the door and sees that a light’s been turned on. There’s some sort of commotion. 

But Akito doesn’t need to bother them. She doesn’t really care. Instead, she pulls her drooping kimono back up to her shoulders and walks away from the gaping window. 

She gets the sudden imminent feeling that had the other her shown up tonight, something irreversible would’ve happened. 

* * *

She doesn’t turn to greet Shigure when he shows up unexpectedly one evening. Of course she doesn’t; she didn’t invite him in the first place. She doesn’t want him here. Not him, not the man who toys with her, pulls her head apart and puts it back together like a child playing with his food. 

She hears him chuckle while she languishes, head resting on her arms as she gazes out the window. 

(there’s nothing on the other side, it’s totally vacant this time, just her and the moon, the man that entered the room—)

“Well,” Shigure says lightly behind her, and he talks as though everything is so funny, like it’s all just one big joke. “I heard _someone’s _ been on edge quite a bit lately. Perhaps the rumor mill isn’t up to tally?”

So Hatori’s been talking, it seems. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” She hisses vehemently at him, though she knows its contradictory. Of _course_ any of Juunishi could feel concern for their God’s state of mind. But then, that’s not even the point, is it?

Shigure doesn’t get the hint. Instead he comes to kneel beside her and though he says nothing, his presence and proximity overwhelm her. 

Akito wants to lash out. Wants to scream and shout; stand up and fit her hands tightly around the Dog’s neck and press and press and _press._

(she’s loosing her—)

But then she suddenly recoils at the idea, and is reminded of that day with Yuki, of her slipping grasp on reality, of the other her—

(she thinks it’s here with them. feels it lurking in the swimmy purgatory within the room. she thinks that it wants to fit its hand around _her _throat, and her head will pop off because the pressure of both her madness and the god spirit inside of it was too much for her body to bare. the other akito will laugh, and it will wiggle and worm inside of her open wound. it will laugh, and laugh, and laugh—)

“Shigure.” She says immediately, disrupting the precarious quiet that had settled over the two of them. Her head lolls a bit, and her dark, heavy bangs catch on her lashes, obscuring her vision. She swivels a bit from her position on the floor and reaches desperately for her Dog. 

His eyes go wide, obviously a bit stupefied at her sudden one-eighty, but then his face softens—no, rather, it darkens—and he leans in to the touch. “Yes, dearest Akito-san?”

She runs her hands up his clothed form like she’s trying to pull her own response from the folds of his kimono, clings to him with a sensuality she saves for him alone, because she wants, and _wants._

“I feel…” _crazy. I’m going out of my mind, and it’s all your fault, Shigure. Yours and Ren’s. That you would go to her, even when I... _ she can’t say that. She doesn’t know why she even bothered thinking it. It’s like she’s dreaming, drifting and dallying with her speech. She’s high on something. In another universe, she tells him, _I feel the God spirit’s hands around my neck._

“I feel sick.” And she flinches and pulls away. She doesn’t feel sick, not really, though perhaps she could, if the definition of ‘sick’ might lend itself to madness. 

Shigure’s hands follow her swaying form before her head hits the ground, and he looks at her longingly. He asks her, “Do you want to be left alone? Or perhaps you need Hatori?” but the tone in his voice makes it obvious, he hates both of those options. 

“N-No,” She begs, and keeps her hands on him. “Stay with me. I want to…”

and leaves it at that. 

Somewhere, another Akito—

(from there their movements share a dance. shigure sweeps his hands over the diveys and falls of her shape, peels away the layers of her casual kimono like he’s unearthing a secret—and he is. perhaps it makes them closer, makes them special that they can share in this one truth, when the world around them is a fog of lies. it’s a single clarity, a first class singularity, and it rings poignant and pungent in the moment—)

The shadows swish like oil on water. Even despite Shigure’s closeness, his hands and his being that are so cherishing of her—even still—she sees, in the movement—

(shigure doesn’t bother to strip all the way, not completely, and it echoes their dynamic. her exposed vincibility, the self of hers he’s bared to the world, it’s a statement. she thinks that she hates it, hates that she has to be the one who’s weak and pathetic, but she—)

A ghost of a touch, arcing across her cold skin like gooseflesh. It’s not quite Shigure, like there’s another person in the room—

(whimpering, she’s whimpering and keening, clutching him like a lifeline when he enters her. she’s happy here, happier than she has been in any moment elsewhere. he loves her. of course he does, because he inhabits the dog spirit, the most loyal servant to—)

She sees herself hovering over Shigure, in the dark space of the room. Herself who is not herself. The other Akito sneers at her, like it’s disgusted; disappointed in her for some reason. She’s naked, and it is too, and its chest is flat. 

(shigure quickens the pace. he’s pounding into her, and she’s panting, arms scrabbling, reaching, she’s calling out and reaching for something. what? what is it she wants? is it not this? is it not the love of her juunishi, of this particular member who has always pulled away from her like the tide? is she no longer happy with something like this? does she need more? she doesn’t know, and that makes her cry—)

The other Akito glares at her, like it—no, _he_—like he can’t bare what he’s seeing. He shudders just once, and turns away from her.

(she’s close. they both are, she can feel it in the tension that rises in the room. her sadness, her uncertainty, it mystifies the air. they love each other, don’t they? isn’t this love? isn’t this what she’s strived for all this time? she can tell that shigure notices the way her cries turn to sobs, even with him inside of her, because he grasps her ever tighter like he loves her. because he loves her, and she doesn’t know what to make of it. what to make of any of it. she weeps, and weeps, and weeps when her climax comes.)

The other Akito is a _man._

* * *

The Sohma estate feels like it’s always dark these days. 

Maybe it’s just Akito, though. Maybe it’s her mania, colouring the world a shade of crazy. Maybe she needs the shadows, maybe the unhappiness lives in her, too. 

Either way, she knows the dark is dangerous, because it’s in circumstances such as these that _demons_ lurk about. 

It’s important to keep on guard. 

At the time being Akito’s hovering about the hall, returning to her room from visiting Hatori. She’d gone to his office earlier that afternoon due to what she told him was a fever—but was it? Or was that just a side effect of insanity?—and the medication he’d given her has made her a little distant. A little less than careful. 

She’s certainly not aware enough to be creeping about the halls at this hour, alone. 

She hears a juttering, a jittering, a muttering, the pittering of small, delicate feet scampering about the shadows. It’s enough to make Akito just a tad nervous, but then she figures to herself that it’s probably just the maids, abustle even at this odd hour. 

If she’s living in a dream, then that’s the excuse she tells herself when she veers off her path, into the dark corners of the inner house, following the source of the noise. Maybe not a dream, maybe of film instead. She feels as though she’s floating, one million feet away from herself, and she gets the sense that something’s coming, something big. 

On the edge of her seat, Akito yells at herself, “No, don’t go in there…!”

But it’s too late. 

This is no film. 

Back in her consciousness she sees a demon in a lair, hiding in the darkness and lying in wait. A demon with hair like an ink spill, shiny dark locks reflecting the pale sweet moonlight. 

She sees the demon in the shape of a woman, a beautiful woman with an ample bosom and an elegant shape, clad in a clinging gown the colour of nightshade. A demon with dark eyes that glimmer with mirth, and a twisted smile marring its face. 

Its laughter rings like a twinkling bell through the confines of the room, but it isn’t alone. 

The demons nails are filed sharp like talons, claws made to tear into vulnerable flesh, to shred and rip. A demon’s claws, made for killing and ruining. And yet, these clawed hands are cradling ever so gently and sweetly—the head of the other Akito. 

The male Akito, who leans lovingly into the demon’s clutches. He’s laughing too, a dark, heaving laugh from the low caverns in his flat chest, a laugh that sounds beautiful along with the bright and high tone of the demon’s giggling. 

Akito—the real one, that is—she—feels sick. Really sick, this time, like she may vomit onto the clean, polished wooden floorboards. This is no film, not any dream; this is undeniably a nightmare scenario. 

That demon woman, and the other her, they’re _laughing_, clinging to each other like lovers and laughing at _her._ It’s more than madness; more than mania; it’s truly too much to bare. 

And the two of them, the demon, and the other Akito, they bring their faces closer together, as though they’re about to share a kiss—but then they stop, abruptly, turn their heads to stare at her, she, who shouldn’t be here, she, invaded and unwelcome—

(she’s shrieking like a woman haunted, a full, blown-out death wail, and the sound is so loud that it pierces through the entire sohma house, through the entire estate, even to places where there is still light, and no demons lurk in the shadows—)

And then the two of them disappear. 

The lights are on. 

Akito’s panting, and heaving. She feels like she’s dying. 

“Akito-sama?” She turns and there’s a small gaggle of maids at her back. Hatori’s there too, looking positively exhausted. “What’s wrong, Akito-sama?” 

Humiliation licks hotly up her spine; she feels it fan across her cheeks. She’s crazy. Totally crazy, and they know now, don’t they? They’re going to lock her up. 

A single shudder wracks her body, and she feels tears—from anger, from frustration or embarrassment, who’s to know—burn in her eyes. 

It’s really—too much—!

She collapses to the floor in a pathetic sobbing heap, and immediately the maids begin to hover about her. _What’s wrong, Akito-sama, are you okay, Akito-sama, _as if they could ever understand. 

She cries and cries and cries and, when she’s done crying, she says to Hatori, who’s looking bitter and jaded, stone-faced and still,

“Get me Kureno.”

She doesn’t want to be alone, not tonight. 

* * *

There is another her. 

It feels a bit crazy, to make a statement like that, perhaps. A bit nutty, a bit out of her zone. Like if she so much as breathes a word of this realization to anyone they’ll lock her up and away on account of her going completely bananas. 

But she _knows._

She’s seen the other Akito in the ghosts of whispers within the inner house, seen the other Akito in the tearful eyes of her Juunishi when they tremble before her. She’s seen the other Akito that lingers and languishes on the cusp of her shadow, seen the other Akito that quivers and quakes in the vague uncertainty of her reflection. 

She’s seen him, and the other Akito haunts her. 

He watches her, he’s seen her every move, every step she takes. She can feel him, like the breath of a lie hanging over her shoulder. He’s always there, always just a step out of her reach. 

She hates the feeling utterly. Being watched, being observed. Trapped within her own self. Like she’s a butterfly pinned to a table, wings pierced through and rendered completely immobile. Even if she struggles, she’ll never be able to move. 

She really does sound crazy, doesn’t she?

(crazy, crazy, crazy, she’s totally crazy! she’s completely gone off the rails, lost her marbles, loose and unhinged, mad and manic—)

But then, she thinks that maybe, just, if she could reach out and touch him—the other her, that isn’t her—then she might not feel so crazy anymore. 

Because all she needs is a proof; one single, solid touch, that might convince her that everything is real. That she isn’t floating in a mist of lies. 

She stands before a mirror in her room, alone. Stares into her own hideous self reflected back at her. She hates it, the way she feels repulsive, and it sickens her more to see her reflection when it blushes at her, when it curls a bit in on itself, exposed, humiliated and shy. 

Akito stands there for a moment more, before it grows to be too much. Another lost cause. 

But then—the mirror begins to simmer. 

The world begins to warp a bit, and it feels like she’s falling through a crack in her own memory. Slipping through the things she knows, and doesn’t know, falling through the pits of despair and uncertainty. 

And then, the other Akito stares back at her. 

_He’s perfect,_ is the first thought that comes to mind when she takes in his appearance. 

He’s her, born in a world in which she could’ve been loved, could’ve been happy. He’s male, and that’s one thing. She sees power, sees the sturdiness of his shoulders, the flight line of his broad pecs, his well-endowed length that hangs limply between his legs. She runs a hand across her own chin and watches him reflect the movement, following the edge of a chiseled, broad jawline. _He’s perfect._

But, he isn’t smiling. He looks longing, like he’s missing something, something he can never have back. Akito sees a small sadness in him, and when she looks at his face—his perfect, masculine face—she sees death in his eyes. 

Something overcomes her. 

Suddenly she reaches, sticks her own hands into the looking glass and—blessedly, beautifully, his hands are there to meet hers. 

And suddenly, suddenly, she feels—a rush of memories, memories that aren’t hers and aren’t hers, another universe, a life in livid rage and agony, and agony unlike her own and yet an echo of it. These memories aren’t hers, and are hers. She sees one million lives. She sees him die. The other her. She sees him swell over and up, like the last glistering fragments of a beautiful dream. She sees his hollow bones without love in them. She sees him die, like an idea never given to form. She sees—

and then it stops. 

She is a woman possessed when her grasps his larger hands in her own small, bony ones, and walks backwards into the room. 

And as she walks, she pulls the other Akito out of the mirror, and into the space of the room—of reality. 

It’s dark again, and he stands there perfectly—a carbon copy of her, yet not—with the reflection of the moon painting his skin a cool hue. She creeps closer to him, runs her hands along his foreign form. He doesn’t move to stop her, only follows with with his dark eyes. 

She breathes through her nose, huffs gently. She’s touched him. Gotten all of the confirmation she needs. And yet, she feels unfinished. 

They’re both naked, the twin Akitos, when she pulls their bodies flush together and rests her head on his shoulder. 

“I see,” she breathes, and she does. “I am Akito, and you are too. We are one in the same.”

He doesn’t respond with much more than a shallow breath in return. 

She pulls away just a bit, just enough to admire him, the him that isn’t her. He’s all she’s ever wanted encompassed in a human form, given shape and solidity. He’s perfect. It’s enough that she wants him to become hers—no, she wants him to become _her._

Akito doesn’t know what, exactly, it is that’s running through her mind when her trails her hand down the broad expanse of his torso and down into the vee of his hard thighs, what it could possibly be that possesses her to take his flaccid dick in her head, but she’s sure it’s _something._

An irreversible something, maybe. 

She strokes him once, twice, before something in the dynamic shifts and the other Akito grabs her hand possessively, yanks it up next to her head and crashes his lips into hers. 

He tastes like disease, like death, and undeniably like dreams. 

She allows the other Akito to take control for now, to push and press and grope at her. She’s thirsty for his perfection but he’s clearly thirsty for whatever flaws are in her design, and she thinks that it’s interesting, to be on this side of the looking glass. 

Maybe that’s crazy. 

What_ever._

He trails a hand down Akito’s thin and shallow stomache, coming to rest at the soft matted curls between her legs. Normally, she doesn’t think about herself during sex, one way or another, but it’s hard when the man dipping his fingers between your folds and fucking them into your juices looks exactly like you. 

It’s almost too much, too overwhelming in the bizarreness of the situation. She feels hot and ashamed, embarrassed, but it feels good, the way her fingers that are not her fingers are pressing sweetly against her walls. It feels so good she wants to let go, but then, she can’t very well call her own name out during sex. 

So instead she clings to the other her, as he pushes her down onto the tatami mats and dominates her, eclipses her. She pants _please...!_ in lieu of a name, and heaves her heavy chest. 

He’s panting too, she notes in her foggy haze. His voice feels exactly right, like it’s the voice she should’ve always had; throaty and low, powerful, and dominating. 

And for the first time tonight, he opens his mouth, and for the first time ever, he tells her,

“We are one in the same.”

Akito smiles at her mirror. Sweet, sensual. A feminine smile, like the woman she is. “That’s right.”

_Right._

It feels _right_, the way his sticky sweat slicked skin catches on hers as he moves above her, and what little movement it is reverberates throughout her entire body. It feels right. 

Right, in the way he pulls his fingers out of her and takes his cock in hand, lines it up against she gaping, dripping lower lips. Panting and panting. It’s right, the way she gasps at the teasing sensation, the soft touch of it rubbing against her clit. 

When the other Akito finally thrusts into her, it’s right, all the force he uses, and fuck he does uses a lot of force, he fucks his fuckstick into her so deeply that she wonders how he’ll ever pull out. 

It feels so fucking good, feels so fucking _right_, and for once in her life Akito feels happy, even as the other her picks up a quick, harsh pace that borders on painful, even as his tight and constricted grip on her fragile wrists find itself on her vulnerable neck. 

“T-That’s ri-right.” She struggles to say as he thrusts into her, as his grip tightens. 

The other her says nothing, he merely lets a smile grow across his face; a happy, blissful grin. 

Happiness. 

This is… happiness, isn’t it?

The other Akito’s hands clench tighter and more sharp, pressing and pressing dangerously, like he might threaten to kill her. Akito’s choking, trying to get breath to her life, but she doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a _thing_, because she’s _happy._

So utterly, utterly happy. 

Happiness, and rightness, and correctness overcome her and the pressure becomes too much, and she feels something give within her. Feels herself become distant from her body, feels her consciousness float away. 

_Oh, _she realizes, now with a full outside view of the two Akitos merging into one. _My head’s popped off _

And it hurts, it’s scary that the other her would do something so irreversible, yet even still—so _happy._

Happy, even as she watches the male Akito fit his hands into the wound at her throat, mash his hips into hers so hard that they can’t be separated. 

Right, even as the other Akito crawls into her, morphs into her, opens the blood clots to make room for himself, bends and contorts into something inhuman to wiggle and worm inside. 

Correct, even as he nestles deep into her gouged out, limp carcass like a maggot, furrowing himself deep into her form. Something so deep, so permanent, that it can’t ever be taken out no matter how hard you try. 

Happy, correct, and all the rightness in the world, yet even still it’s scary, 

scary and happy all at the the same time, it’s getting to be too much, and she feels something well up in her,

as though she may orgasm within her own disembodied soul, but then the other Akito stands up, stands up inside her hollowed out corpse, 

and with its cold dead hands the Akito-chimera grabs her head and—.-./**—**_()_<strike>.</strike>**__**.<strike>]</strike>_|a_

**4**<strike>@</strike>“**_”_****.**_<strike>-</strike>**;**<strike>,</strike>_’_—<strike>-—**-**_/_:</strike>

-<strike>;</strike>(3**3**_$_<strike>/_</strike>_n_**d**

w<strike>(</strike>_$_**)**_::_?

/<strike>|</strike>**s**,,<strike>:</strike>

..___~.h

.e

—

.

.

.

.

* * *

The day that Akito goes to greet Tohru Honda at Kaibara school is one with an air of mystery. An air of the unknown. 

And this air makes this meeting _dangerous._

But Tohru Honda tries. Oh lord, does she try. She’s flippant and cute, she tries so hard to perky and headstrong, to be the most polite girl she can when she catches sight of Akito, and asks with timid tepidness, “Akito…san?”

There’s something _dangerous_ in the air. 

“That’s right.” He tells her. 

.


End file.
